


Half The Heart Beats Ever Slow

by GalaxyGhosty



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Demon Arthur, Demon Merlin, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGhosty/pseuds/GalaxyGhosty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur had never been afraid of monsters. The monsters weren't supposed to be real.</p>
<p>But then Merlin came, taking all that he was and refused to give it back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half The Heart Beats Ever Slow

**Author's Note:**

> This is **not** part of my original Angels  & Demons verse. This is not connected to that verse in any way, shape, or form. Just wanted to make sure that's clear. 
> 
> Ahh, so, first fic of 2014. I am excited. Wrote this at around 2AM this morning, so any mistakes are my own. I actually kind of like this, and have a feeling there's a lot that can happen in this little story's universe (I have a thing for Angels & Demons, don't I?) 
> 
> Regardless, happy new year and please enjoy!

He is a monster.

The tremors return to him full force, enveloping him as an icy chill would. He shivers, wrapping his arms around himself, digging his nails into his skin, crescent shaped indents marring the smooth surface. A consistent, dull ache throbs right behind his eyes, and the beginnings of a headache are forming. He grits his teeth, then instead bites down on his tongue as another wave of pain washes over him. The irony taste of blood fills his mouth, and yet, and yet, he is not sated. 

His senses are going into overdrive. Even in his seclusion, he _hears_ the noises of others, he _feels_ their emotions, their life force, all clambering together in a jumbled mess that he can hardly distinguish. But he doesn't need to distinguish them, not one by one, no, all he needs is to _find_ them, to tear them apart and drain them of all that they are, of who they are, in one swift action that will make his aches go away, that will rid him of this involuntary shaking and headache and _everything_. 

He breathes, and closes his eyes, swallowing hard. He fights the hunger that he feels seeded deep within himself. He will not be like _them_.

_But aren't you?_ A voice mocks within his mind, so much like his own. It's teasing and tantalizing, without care, without sympathy. _But aren't you a monster now, Arthur?_

He is. Arthur knows he's a monster now. But he will fight it. He will die before he kills another. 

A flare of heat rises inside of him, settling into his chest. The burn of it is almost enough to make him scream, but he holds fast, sucking in a startled, shaky breath, in vain attempts to keep his hollers at bay. If he gives in—if he gives in now, he will lose himself. If he screams, if he admits to himself that he is losing the battle over his own body, he will succumb to the temptation. If there's any doubt in his mind, if there's even the seed of a thought in his mind that he will lose, he will. 

Arthur cannot doubt. He must assure himself he is stronger than this. 

Spots dance along his vision, even with his eyes closed. The headache is intensifying now, stronger as the scent of perfume (or is it cologne?) strikes him. His hunger grows stronger with each passing second, the desire to let himself go, the desire to give in to his instincts growing with it.

_Give in, Arthur, give in. You'll feel so much better._ The voice sings again, but it's not his, no, it's not his anymore. It becomes distorted, but only for a second, before it's recognizable. It's the voice of the one who made him this way, who took him and refused to give him back. _Devour them all. You know you want to._

He does. He so desperately wants to drink in every last drop of life force around him. Arthur so desperately wants to feed on their emotions, take all that they have and never give it back, as he had been taken and never given back. He wants the pain to go away, for the burn to be quelled, for his tremors to cease, but they will not. He knows they will not until his hunger is sated, and damn it, _damn him_ , he will not harm another human. He will not harm one of his own.

_You are no longer human, my little one._

A choked noise escapes his lips as he slams his hand to the ground, curling his fingers into the dirt beneath him. It catches under his nails, caking underneath them, the pressure causing even more pain to himself. It diverts his attention for mere seconds, but it's enough, it's enough for him to remember himself for a second longer, for him to feed his illusions for a little longer. He lets himself believe for a second that he is Arthur, that he is human. He lets himself believe for a second he is not a monster, that he is _not_ a demon now. 

However, Arthur knows that it isn't true. He remembers the night he was turned like it was yesterday (was it?) He remembers the darkness of the street, the striking, blue eyes catching his own, darkening every second (though he did not notice this). He remembers the soft curve of the man's smile and a raised brow, beckoning him closer. Streaks of dark hair and pale skin summoned him, long fingers tangling into his hair, pressing him against the wall, and oh, does he remember the lips, whispering beautiful words, sultry and sleek over and over in his ear. Yes, yes, he'd never felt so loved, never felt so cherished and precious in all his life, as the man uttered his name, _Merlin_ , to him.

But then there had been pain. Pain called him forth from that daze, that trap the man had him in. The memory of his life being ripped from him, the agony of feeling his own being slipping through his fingers like sand had caused him great fear. Arthur had felt blind panic at the time, he could remember thrashing against him, thrashing against the lithe form that held him firm, draining him of everything that was _him_. But then there had been sympathy, a fleck of sadness in those dark eyes, the vaguest hints of blue returning. He remembers a finger in his mouth, a drop of blood on his tongue, the hesitant, _You'll be okay, little one_ spoken into his ear. There had been a sharp tug on his heart, pulling him from the darkness--

Arthur opens his eyes, and wishes he had died that night. But he did not. Instead he lived, breaking free of his captor, stealing away into the night. It is morning now, and he has not yet eaten. But food will not satisfy him, only the lives of others will and he will _not_ take them. So he fights the overwhelming sense, scratching harder at the dirt to draw his attention to something else, to the agony that isn't his hunger. 

“I will not kill them,” he whispers, only to himself. He whispers it as if saying it will assure him, will make it true. “I will not kill them. I will die before I kill them.”

His sense of smell seems to become more precise the longer time goes on. For earlier, he could not pick out individuals, couldn't pick them out in the crowd, he can now can pinpoint them exactly, where they are, how many steps they take, how many paces they are away. Arthur finds his mind slowly calculating who is closer, and if they will be enough to sate him, to relieve his hunger--

No! He will not take a life. He will not take someone away from their lives, their homes, their families. They don't deserve that treatment.

_Just a taste,_ the voice coos, a bitter reminder. _Just a taste and you won't feel so bad anymore._

The pressure under his nails no longer holds his attention. Arthur swallows again, this time in anticipation, his eyes trailing the humans who pass the alleyway with renewed interest. They are all so young, so full of life. He wonders, truly, how it will taste, how sweet it will be when he drinks his fill--

Arthur's mind is in a whirlwind. He cries out, slamming his head back against the bricks of the wall. The throbbing sting that follows does nothing for his headache, but it reminds him, it reminds him that he feels, that he still has his wounds, that he cannot possibly inflict that onto someone else-- 

He buries his fingers in his hair, gripping tightly at the strands. He pulls and scrapes at his scalp, hauling his mind back, yanking it from the depths of the dark place, away from the demon inside him, growing stronger with each passing second. 

It takes him a few minutes, but Arthur realizes there are tears in his eyes. He wants to scrub them away, but he doesn't risk letting his hair go, doesn't risk the absence of his self-afflictions that keep him grounded. So he lets himself cry, the burn still sharp in his chest, heat crawling up his throat. 

A beat passes, and he feels so tired. He feels so weak and weary, and he bites his lip, cursing because he almost can't fight it anymore, can't fight the way his mind seems to be spiraling further and further out of his grasp. Arthur is so drained, the will to persist leaving him, and he can't, he can't do this any longer--

“Take from me,” someone breathes into his ear, their voice low and calm. It's deliberate, as if they've done this before. “I will not see you die, so take what you need from me, little one.” 

He glances up, and it's _him_ , the one who made him this way. The one who's forced him into this dilemma to begin with. Arthur pushes at him, not wanting him anywhere near, not wanting him to speak to him--

“ _Mer--_ ” he begins, but cannot finish, for the other demon hushes him, pulling him close, wrapping him in his arms.

“Take,” Merlin commands again, eyes narrowing, a fierce edge to his tone. “You will obey me on this.”

Arthur doesn't know how it works, but he knows how to take, as Merlin demands. Even if he wants to, he cannot disobey him, not with his resolve so fragile, not with a direct order from the one who turned him. Slowly, he lets his mind slip, letting instincts take over. The sweet energy fills him after a moment, and he feels his body relax, his ailments becoming nothing more than a fleeting memory. He drinks and drinks until he's sated, until the urges are gone and he feels content once more. He grows limp in the other demon's arms, boneless and exhausted for a reason he can't place.

He closes his eyes, and he thinks he must be imagining it when Merlin smooths his hand over his cheek, pressing kisses into his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
